"There's nothing great Nor small," has said a poet of our day, Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve And not be thrown out by the matin's bell.

God's prophets of the Beautiful, These Poets were.

O brave poets, keep back nothing; Nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward! speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul! Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For tis not in mere death that men die most.

The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.